


i'm coming apart at the seams

by lucifucker



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, Fuck City, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Violence, Super minor - Freeform, Thanks, much cursing wow cursing, uh, well like a zombie apocalypse if it happened right now i guess fuck, yeah - Freeform, zombie apocalypse AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:56:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2594483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucifucker/pseuds/lucifucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Society as they know it has been over for about two weeks when Pete comes downstairs one morning and informs them, in his dull, stupid, fucking Pete way, that he’s going out looking for Gabe.</p><p>or</p><p>I needed to write a zombie apocalypse fic and now i fUCKIN NG GD DI  D IT</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm coming apart at the seams

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to come soon from Pete's perspective about Gabe thank you all and to all a good night.

Society as they know it has been over for about two weeks when Pete comes downstairs one morning and informs them, in his dull, stupid, fucking Pete way, that he’s going out looking for Gabe.

 

“You can’t go all the way to Jersey, there’s no way there’s enough gas between here and there.” Patrick immediately says, and Joe’s internally thankful that he’s got such a good Pete filter, because after fifteen years Patrick can catch Pete’s bullshit before it’s even all the way out of his mouth.

 

“He was in Chicago.” He throws back, without missing a beat, and yeah, maybe Pete actually thought this through. Crap. “He was at my apartment, waiting for me.”

 

“What makes you think he’ll still be there?” Matt asks, not accusing, just asking, because Matt’s like that, and also because Pete hasn’t even mentioned Gabe in the past weeks and none of them were honestly sure what was going on with them before, anyway. “You don’t think he’d have moved?” Pete shrugs.

 

“We didn’t.” He says simply, and shrugs, and Joe runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. It’s growing out, and Andy doesn’t have a buzzer, so they’re just letting it grow until they can cut the top off and leave it.

 

“You’re not going alone.” Patrick crosses his arms over his chest, and Pete glares at him.

 

“I’m not bringing any of you with me.” He retorts, and for someone who’s been best friends with him since he was sixteen, Joe sure is done with Pete’s martyrdom bullshit.

 

“Pete, that’s suicide!” Patrick’s voice is getting louder, and Joe squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his temples, headache already starting to build.

 

“I’m gonna be fucking fine, Patrick, it’s just--”

 

“Fucking no, you’re not--” Joe lets out a soft puff of air, and does exactly what he’s known he was going to do since Pete walked in and said he was leaving.

 

“I’m going with you.” Patrick and Pete both go dead silent, and Joe looks up, and raises his eyebrows. “What?”

 

“Joe--” Patrick starts, and Joe glares at him.

 

“You can come, too, if you want, but he’s not going alone, and he’s not going without me.” He looks up and meets Pete’s eyes across the table. “End of story.”

 

And so that, in short, is how they agree that Pete, Patrick and Joe will go out looking for Gabe, and leave Andy and Matt at the house to hold down the fort.

 

\--

 

Patrick’s downstairs, working on dinner with Andy when Pete steps into Joe’s room, eyes set, and arms crossed over his chest. Joe knows what he’s going to say before he says it, but that doesn’t make it easier.

 

“We can’t bring him.” He says, flatly, without a hint of that wavering, unsure tone that Pete usually uses. There are no kind of’s or I think that’s. There’s just Pete looking down at him with his jaw tensed and his shoulders stiff, like he’s ready to fight a world of fucking biters with his bare hands before he backs down.

 

Joe looks at him for a long, long moment, and then nods.

 

“You’re right.” Pete’s shoulders droop, a little, and he steps forward, sitting down next to Joe on the bed. Joe puts an arm around his shoulders, and Pete leans into him, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and Joe wonders if maybe it is.

 

\--

 

The morning they're supposed to leave, Joe wakes up with Patrick's head on his chest, and the soft sound of his breathing echoing around their room.

 

There are a thousand things Joe wants to be able to do right now. He wants to lean down and whisper his 'I love you' into Patrick's lips, one more time. He wants to press Patrick into the mattress and fuck him again, because last night wasn't enough, because no night will ever be enough. He wants to stay here, and never leave, and wake Patrick up with kisses and laughs and feel Patrick's smile against his skin.

 

But, unfortunately, Joe has not often been known to get what he wants, and instead what he can do is bury his nose in Patrick's hair, inhale deeply, and slip out of bed without making a sound.

 

He pulls on his jeans in absolute silence, picks up his backpack and lets himself have one last second to take in how fucking peaceful Patrick looks, before he's closing the door, and locking it from the outside.

 

Pete's there, with his own bag slung over his shoulder, hair mussed up and dark circles under his eyes, and he reaches out, and tugs Joe into a tight hug, one arm around his shoulders, the other around his waist.

 

Faintly, Joe can hear the sounds of Patrick getting out of bed, and his voice, softly calling Joe's name, like he's confused, like he doesn't understand what's happening, and as Joe turns around, he rattles the doorknob for the first time.

 

It strikes Joe that, until now, he's never heard Patrick scream.

 

His fists pummel the door, and Joe can see it actually shaking, and Pete's face is somber, but resigned, as he walks away, down the stairs and out toward the car. Joe stares at the old-fashioned keyhole and thinks about that part of Romeo and Juliet with the hole in the wall.

 

He takes a step forward, and presses his hand against the door, as if that's going to help anything.

 

“Patrick.” He murmurs, and Patrick's constant litany of you _can't do this, you can't, Joe, **please** , Joe_\-- stops. He hears Patrick's heavy breathing, through the weathered oak between them, and closes his eyes. “Please listen to me, okay?” There's a beat, and then;

 

“Okay.” Joe leans forward, and rests his forehead on the frame, fingers splaying out, and it's stupid, but he imagines Patrick doing the same on the other side.

 

“I'm gonna come back.” He says, keeps his voice as soft, and as even as he can, and he hears Patrick's intake of breath, the beginning of some lecture about martyrdom and why Joe's an idiot and how this is absolutely not the kind of compromise he was talking about, but Joe cuts him off. “No, listen. I'm not leaving you, alright? I'm not.” He shakes his head, even though there's no one to see him, and lets out a shaky breath. “And I know you don't understand this, right now, but it's better this way. It is.”

 

“Please.” It's soft, broken, and Joe can hear the tears in Patrick's voice. His chest clenches.

 

“I love you.” He breathes, and forces himself to pull away, walking away from the door even as Patrick's silence is broken.

 

“No.” His fists slams against the door, again, and Joe doesn't look back. “No, Joe, _Joe_ \--” He's down the stairs as fast as he can go, half-running out the door, and maybe his eyes are wet, and maybe they aren't, but once he's outside at least he can't hear.

 

–

 

They've been on the road for six days when they run into Spencer and Brendon, walking along the side of the road, dirty, and armed to the teeth, but alive. Pete's driving, and he almost runs the car off the road, jumping out the door before it's really even finished moving, and Joe opens his mouth to chastise him, but stops.

 

Brendon and Pete are clinging to each other like they've just found their lifeline, holding each other so tight that Joe can see Brendon's knuckles going white where they're curled in Pete's jacket. Pete's got one hand buried in the shaggy, untrimmed hair at the back of Brendon's head, and an arm wrapped around his waist, and Brendon's face is pressed into the crook of Pete's neck, eyebrows furrowed like he's letting go of some kind of pain, and in some ways, Joe thinks he is.

 

Pete pulls back, and grasps Brendon's face in both hands, and it strikes Joe how young Brendon looks, with dirt on his cheeks, and tears in his eyes, and even with the way Brendon has to look down at Pete to make eye contact, it’s clear which one of them is taking care of the other.

 

“You're okay.” Pete rasps, and Brendon nods, his hair falling down into his eyes, longer than it's been in a long time, and Joe watches the way Pete's hands shake, his whole body tensed, a hard line of fear and concern and fierce, fierce love. Brendon swallows, thickly, and his head droops, his forehead resting on Pete's shoulder, and Pete's hands slide up to cup the back of his neck, holding him steady even when unsteady is their life, now.

 

Joe climbs out of the car, and he and Spencer exchange their own, extraordinarily less magnanimous, hug, and then sit back and watch Pete and Brendon stand in their own little bubble, and the rest of the world might be a dangerous shithole, but as far as they seem to be concerned, none of that matters.

 

Pete and Brendon are together, and, for the moment, everything else just melts away.

 

–

 

They find Gabe in what's left of downtown Chicago, shambling across the street with his hoodie half hanging off, and only one remaining sneaker.

 

Pete leaps out of the car in a similar fashion to the way he did when they found Brendon and Spencer, but this time, when he throws himself into Gabe's arms, he doesn't get the reaction he's hoping for.

 

He stumbles out of the car, laughing, and grinning, and on top of the fucking world, and shouting Gabe's name with more joy than Joe's heard him express in weeks, and wraps his arms as tightly as he can around Gabe's middle, buries his face in his chest and just keeps whispering, over and over “You're alive, you're alive, you're alive--” Until the rest of them get out of the car, and realize.

 

“Pete.” Joe says, keeps his voice as soft and as careful as he can as he watches Pete cling to Gabe. “Pete, Panda, let him go.”

 

Pete pulls back and turns toward Joe, his arms still looped around Gabe's hips, his eyebrows drawn.

 

“What, whats--”

 

“Pete, _please_.” Brendon hisses, staring at Gabe wide-eyed and terrified and Joe probably doesn't look much better.

 

Because Pete's not seeing it but they are. Gabe's eyes are blank and he's not holding Pete back, and there's a place in the arm of his jacket where the blood has seeped through, where he was bitten. They can see the pale, pallid color of Gabe's skin, and the slackened look on his face and how obviously fucking _turned_ he is, but Pete can't.

 

“Pete.” Joe tries again, and he knows he's moving forward and he knows he shouldn't get closer but he can't help it. “Pete, look at him.”

 

Pete shakes his head, and looks up, and freezes.

 

“No.” His voice wavers, a little, around the word, and his arms fall down to his sides, fingertips still hovering over Gabe's chest. “No, Gabe, come on.” Pete shakes his head, and Joe finally thinks to reach into the car and pull out the shotgun, cocking it as quietly as he can.

 

“Gabe—Gabe, baby, no, please, please, Gabe, no, come on, Gabey, _please_ \--” There are tears streaking down Pete's cheeks, now, and his fingers are curled in the front of Gabe's grimy purple hoodie and Gabe...stares. He's not moving, not biting but not responding, either, and Joe takes another step closer, waiting for Gabe to move, for Gabe's mouth to open and for him to bite Pete but nothing happens. Gabe stares down, and Pete stares up, and doesn't move a muscle.

 

“Panda.” Joe knows how wrecked his voice is, but Gabe's a fucking biter, and Pete's not fucking moving. “Panda, please— _please_ , just—” Pete shakes his head, and holds a hand out, his voice shaking.

 

“Joe, wait.” Joe blinks, and shakes his head, incredulously.

 

“Pete, you have to--”

 

“Just--” Pete's looking up at Gabe still, and Joe follows his gaze, and realizes why he's telling him to stop.

 

Gabe's not still, anymore.

 

His lips are moving but no sound is coming out and he's not speaking, not quite, but he keeps making a little 'p-p—p' sound, without really saying a word, and Pete shakes his head and slides his hands up and cups Gabe's cheeks.

 

“Gabe?” And the level of disbelief, even in Pete's voice, is overwhelming because Gabe's one of them, grey eyes and grey skin and he can't be talking, he can't.

 

“P--” Gabe's eyes are widening, just a little, and he's leaning a little closer to Pete. “P—P---” Pete pushes up, a little, onto his tiptoes, and rests their foreheads together. “ _Pete_.”

 

Joe's frozen in place, gun raised and body tense and as he watches, Gabe's jaw trembles, slightly, and he does it again.

 

“P-Pete.” With a little more finality, this time, and Pete huffs out something halfway between a laugh and a sob.

 

“Yeah.” He rasps, and strokes his thumbs over Gabe's cheeks, nodding slowly while Brendon pushes Joe's gun down toward the ground, staring at them with the same level of awe that Joe is. “Yeah, baby, Pete.” Gabe's eyes are hard, and he's not smiling, or moving his face, really, but he's communicating enough with those eyes, something scared, and harsh, and desperate, and even Joe can see that.

 

There's a long, long silence, where Gabe just keeps breathing out Pete's name, and Pete keeps nodding, and crying, and doing Pete-stuff, and Joe, Brendon, and Spencer stand there feeling a little awkward and a lot relieved, until eventually Brendon is as Brendon does, and breaks it.

 

“So...” Everyone, Pete included, turns toward him, and he shrugs. “Trunk?”

 

–

 

The shiner Patrick gives Joe when he steps inside is absolutely 100% deserved, and something he completely expected, but unfortunately, good intentions do not make punches hurt less.

 

“You asshole.” He seethes, while Joe struggles to get his orientation back, and everyone else stands awkwardly off to the side and pointedly doesn't look at them. “You complete, total fucking asshole.”

 

“I should get that on a business card.” Joe mumbles, and rubs his eye, gaze focused on the floor, and his shoes, and pretty much anywhere other than Patrick's probably scathing face. “'Joe Trohman, complete, total fucking asshole'.”

 

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no.” Seven no's. Wow. “You do not get to joke about this. This is not a joke thing. This is not an 'oh, wow, that Joe, he's so funny and stupid' thing.” Patrick steps forward, and grabs the front of Joe's shirt, tugging him closer, and now that Joe's looking up he can see the tear-tracks on Patrick's cheeks, the redness around his eyes and the tight way he's holding his jaw and all Joe wants to do is kiss it better but that's literally never once worked with Patrick, and it's not going to work, now.

 

“Patrick--”

 

“You left me here.” He hisses, his fingers curled tight in Joe's jacket, and Joe's stomach twists itself into knots. “You left without me, and you were gone for _weeks_ , and I didn't know if--” Patrick chokes off, and ducks his head, and Joe can see where his eyes are squeezed shut and his teeth are gritted and his throat starts to feel tight.

 

Patrick's shoulders have started to shake, and Joe doesn't know what to do.

 

“I'm sorry.” He says, because it's all he can think to say, and reaches up, tentatively, resting his hands on either side of Patrick's neck. “Patrick, I'm sorry, I didn't--” Patrick jerks back.

 

“You didn't what?” He demands, and Joe swallows, hard. Patrick's face is red, and his eyes are narrowed, and Joe missed him so much but he sure didn't miss this. “You didn't think? You didn't want to hurt me? You didn't want me to get hurt, _what_ , Joe?”

 

“All of it. Everything. Literally every single thing you just said.” Patrick throws his arms up in the air and Joe flinches, because honestly he probably deserves another punch, and also because his eye's already starting to swell up.

 

“Fuck you.” Patrick spits, and Joe flinches. “Fuck you, Joe seriously. Go fuck yourself.” And with that, he turns on his heel, and storms up the stairs, slamming his (their) door behind him.

 

Joe doesn't move until Andy puts an arm around his shoulders and leads him toward the kitchen to put ice on his eye.

 

The door stays closed for the rest of the night, and Joe falls asleep on the couch, staring up the stairs and wondering how he can fix this.

 

–

 

Andy reacts better than any of them had imagined, to Gabe showing up. Pete had talked a lot about exit strategies and where they'd need to bury his body once Andy murdered him for bringing a zombie into his safehouse, and Joe had honestly pretty much agreed with him, but they're pleasantly surprised.

 

For all his zombie apocalypse preparedness and integrity, they'd kind of forgotten that Andy's also a humanitarian and their fucking friend.

 

So when they show up with a zombified Gabe in the trunk and very few answers to his many, many questions, it's kind of a relief that Andy just nods, and tells them they have to keep him in the basement, and doesn't, y'know, freak out and start shooting people.

 

They set Gabe up in the basement, tied to a pole, which he seems to understand, on some level, although _their_ understanding of _him_ is limited by the fact that he still can't actually say anything other than 'Pete'. There's a bed, one of the spares Andy had lying around Fuck City after Stu and Kev left, right toward the beginning. They'd figured they were gone, the same way they figured everyone who they couldn't see was gone, but then Stu had sent Andy an email, from somewhere else with internet, and they'd all breathed a sigh of relief.

 

Pete spends about as much time down in the basement with Gabe as Joe does sitting outside the door to his and Patrick's room like a sad puppy. (Which, by the way, is a completely feasible way of getting back into Patrick's good graces, Joe would know, he's done it many, many times before)

 

They sit, together, and Pete talks, and Gabe listens, or at least, they think he's listening, and it's kind of sweet, in the weird way that a guy sitting with his dead boyfriend and talking to him can be. Pete talks about what he did when Gabe was away, and how much he missed him, and the stuff he's been writing, because he's still writing, of course, and Gabe looks at him, and moves very, very rarely, which is a stark contrast to the way he used to be.

 

Joe remembers when Gabe was like an unstoppable force, when he walked into a room and it was like the whole room moved with him. Joe remembers when Gabe's voice would echo through concert halls and parking lots, and when Gabe would be loud, every inch of him exuding energy and power and _vibrance_.

 

Unsurprisingly, Joe does not go into the basement very often.

 

It's weird, he guesses, to see something that used to be really amazing shambling around as a living corpse.

 

There's something hurt, in the way Brendon touches Spencer, and right from the get-go, Joe doesn't ask where Ryan is. They tell them about Jon, and Dallon, and Kenny, and how they're all safe, with their families, but no-one says anything about Ryan, and Pete doesn't look up from the floor.

 

Every once in a while Joe will come downstairs and find them on the couch together, with Brendon curled in Spencer's lap, head resting on his chest, but his fingers are never touching Spencer anywhere Joe can see, and Joe wonders if it's because he feels like he can't.

 

Brendon's too thin, still, even though Andy keeps feeding him enough to kill a small elephant, thin enough that when he walks around without a shirt on (which he almost never does, now, and thats telling enough in and of itself) Joe can see the sharp protrusion of his ribs.

 

Although considering Joe's still not allowed into his own room and hasn't spoken to his boyfriend since the day he got back, he figures he's not one to judge how fucked up other people are.

 

–

 

Matt almost gets himself killed, one day, and Andy snaps, for the first time since all this started. Joe knew it would happen, eventually, because as much as Andy's a jedi knight, nobody's a jedi knight all the time, and also, also, Matt's an idiot.

 

They go out on patrol, looking for survivors and people who might need help, and also in case any other of their friends are zombie-curable, and Joe goes with them because he's having a bad fucking day and he got a little bit of satisfaction out of how pissed Patrick got when he volunteered to go with them.

 

Fuck him, if he's gonna keep ignoring Joe forever, Joe's gonna do stupid shit. There's a logic behind it. Probably.

 

But they go out and they're driving around and they find this lady, Mary, and her daughter, Zoe, in mid-Milwaukee, and they're both really sweet, and Matt and Zoe become best friends and start playing because she's like five and doesn't understand who the crazy people are but understands that Matt's hair is funny (fucking sidebangs).

 

And Andy and Joe are talking to Mary about where she's going (Idaho, apparently, which, it's not that Joe had forgotten it was a place it's that he had forgotten that anywhere outside of the house was a place) and it's great.

 

Right up until a biter stumbles out of the building they're next to and makes a beeline for Mary, and Matt, not having another option that Joe can see, although, obviously fucking shooting things is always an option, pushes her out of the way and lets the thing tackle him, and Joe can't do anything but watch as the thing sinks its teeth into his shoulder.

 

Matt lets out a strangled sound halfway between a scream and a shout and Andy flies forward, tackling it to the ground and off of Matt, and pummeling its head into the concrete with the butt of his rifle like he's lost control over what his body does, and Joe wonders, absently, while freaking the fuck out, if maybe he has.

 

Andy keeps hitting it until Matt crawls over and touches his arm, fingers curling around his bicep as though they belong there, and he whirls around, dropping the gun and rounding on him. He grabs Matt by his collar, and drags him close, ripping at his shirt until it comes off and he can inspect the skin of his shoulder, a little bruised, but unbroken, the duct tape lining they'd put on their clothes before leaving having apparently stopped the biter’s blunt teeth. He stays there, for a second, fingertips pressed against the base of Matt’s neck, his whole body tensed, before shoving him violently away.

 

“What the fuck was that?” He demands, and Joe watches Matt's jaw clench, his eyes set.

 

“What'd you want me to fucking do, Andy? Let her fucking die?” He throws a hand out toward Zoe, who's wrapped up in her mother's arms, again, thank fucking god, and Andy looks like he's about to punch him.

 

“You have a gun for a fucking reason, you fucking idiot!” Andy shouts, and Matt shakes his head and gestures wildly with his hands.

 

“I didn't fucking think of that, jesus, what the fuck is your problem?”

 

There's a long, thick silence, where Andy and Matt are both breathing hard, and Matt's shirt is still hanging off of him, and Joe, Mary, and Zoe stay very, very quiet, and then Andy shakes his head, and pushes himself up off the ground, reaching for his rifle, and storming back toward the car.

 

Matt stares after him for a second, and then gets up too, turning to help Joe make sure Mary and Zoe are stocked enough and have enough to defend themselves with, and then stalks after Andy.

 

The ride home is tense, and quiet, and Joe absolutely did not come along for more tense silence, that was why he left in the fucking first place.

 

They get home, and Andy slams the car door a lot more loudly than he needed to and heads up the stairs, and Matt follows. Joe shuffles inside, head bowed and burnt the fuck out, and by the time he gets to the kitchen the shouting is already audible, if not quite discernible. Patrick and Spencer are on the couch, talking about something or other, and Pete's assumedly in the basement, and if Joe had to hazard a guess he'd say Brendon's asleep, although he probably won't be for long, the way this is going.

 

There's muffled hollering for a few minutes, and a couple of loud, unintelligible questions on Matt's end, and then the door to their room flies open and Andy roars;

 

“ _B_ _ecause I can't fucking lose you_!”

 

The whole house is quiet, dead silent, and Joe looks up to find Patrick staring at him, eyes wide and biting his lip. The upstairs door closes again, quietly, this time, and Joe doesn't hear them talking, which leads him to believe they're doing something very, very different from talking.

 

He meets Patrick's eyes, and they stay there like that, for a minute, looking at each other, like they haven't in weeks, and Patrick gets up off the couch, slowly, and walks over to him. He's wearing one of Joe's Black Flag t-shirts, and his stupid red cardigan and a pair of jeans that belong to one of them, they forgot a long time ago, and there's a little crack in the corner of his glasses, which can't be good, but Joe's not really focused on that right now.

 

Because Patrick steps right up into his space and reaches up, wraps his arms around Joe's neck and tugs him down until he can bury his face in the crook of his neck, and Joe acts on instinct, slides his hands up Patrick's sides until he can grip the fabric of the Stupid Cardigan where it lays over Patrick's spine and press his nose into the softness of his shoulder.

 

Patrick's fingers slide into Joe's hair, and he can feel his whole body starting to relax, his shoulders slumping and his whole posture shifting to fit into Patrick's. They stand there, like that, for a long time, with Patrick holding Joe, and Joe just hanging on, breathing slowly, in tandem, until Patrick pulls back, and shifts his hands down to frame Joe's face, kisses him, long, and slow, and sure, and _god_ , Joe missed him so fucking much.

 

Patrick breaks away, and tugs him by the hands on his face, grinning up at him like they're seventeen again and the world didn't end, and pulls him up the stairs to their room, and as soon as Joe steps inside, it's like everything's okay again.

 

Because his shirts are still all over the floor, and their bed's made, and that _means_ something, because Patrick _hates_ making the bed, and Joe hasn't even been sleeping in it, but he's still making it. Because Joe can't sleep in the bed unless it's been made, can't have dirt or crumbs or anything under him when he's in it.

 

Patrick kicks off his shoes, and Joe does the same, and across the hall Andy and Matt are probably having very agile, very physically demanding sex, but Patrick and Joe don't. Not today.

 

They crawl in, together, and Patrick pulls at Joe until he's lying on his side, and Patrick can wrap an arm around his waist and press against him from behind and hold him so close that Joe's chest hurts. His eyes sting, a little, and he curls back into Patrick, linking their fingers together against his chest, and focusing on the warmth of Patrick behind him, the weight where his arm rests on Joe's side, the soft press of his nose against the back of Joe's neck.

 

He drifts off with Patrick wrapped around him, and actually manages to sleep for more than an hour for the first time this week.

  
It feels more okay than he’s felt since this started.


End file.
